PenPenWrites

I was whining to a friend: Alpha Daughter leaves for a year abroad in three weeks. After spending several months being excited about all the opportunities a year in another country means–for her career, for her family–I am faced with the moment of truth. She is packing her bags and I have an oh-so-heavy feeling inside, a "when will I see you again" kind of heaviness. Paterfamilias does not seem to connect with my pain, I tell my friend. He says, "you'll go visit whenever you feel like–hop a plane and you're there whenever you want to be." I say it's not the same as being able to pick up the phone and chat or, hearing there's a sudden need for your services, getting there the next day. Distance is a fearsome factor. And it also means that on any visit, I am bound to overstay my welcome or, if not my welcome, my comfort level.

My friend has been through this drama. Her daughter lived abroad for several years. I figured she would understand the feelings and fears. And she did–with this pragmatic twist:

"I feel your pain about
a distant daughter," she wrote in an email. "but I have to side with [Paterfamilias] on this one.  Getting to
Germany is not a big deal and if you go every three or four months, it will
suffice.  When my daughter was in Israel with the first grandchild, I went every
three months and the flight was 12-13 hours. I would stay for five days,
get adjusted to the time change, then board the plane again. It was awful. And sort of unnatural: no contact and then too much. But Germany is
easier.  Between email and visits, you should be fine. I shouldn't
be so smug. I now have my grandchildren less than 30 minutes away and I see
them every week."